All His Yesterdays
by KLMeri
Summary: He's a Prince of all the land. His royal court includes his most trusted friends. There is no war, no poverty, no famine. Yet James Kirk becomes increasingly convinced this perfect life is his cage. The only way to win his freedom is to fight the one who built the cage - and that is himself. - COMPLETE
1. Part I

**Title**: All His Yesterdays  
**Author**: klmeri  
**Fandom**: Star Trek AOS  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Scotty, Chekov, Sulu, others  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word Count**: 18948  
**Summary**: He's a Prince of all the land. His royal court includes his most trusted friends. There is no war, no poverty, no famine. Yet James Kirk becomes increasingly convinced this perfect life is his cage. The only way to win his freedom is to fight the one who built the cage - and that is himself.  
**Prompt**: I had no ideas for **space_wrapped** this year so I asked for some help and received it. The storyline is based upon several prompts because my fandom friends are awesome and each gave me a clue to a great story. Thanks, y'all!  
And special thanks goes to **hora_tio** for the un-ending support. Without her, I'd have given up on this story altogether!

* * *

The prince returns to his palace very early in the morning, a bedraggled, limping figure in strange clothing. When the guards on the wall recognize him, they raise a shout. He is given over to the care of healing women but released soon after once it is discovered he has no wounds. A creature with a thin, grave face pinches his skin, stares into his eyes, and declares him sane. He is bathed, shorn, fed, and dressed to be presented to the members of a council who have ruled in his absence. They too stare into his eyes, but what they see there none will say. Instead they claim he is weakened from barely escaping death. If he has trouble remembering what befell him, it matters little.

At the start of the next day a golden circlet is placed upon his brow, and an exuberant cry is heard throughout:

The Prince has returned!

Long live Prince James!

[~~~]

**Part I**

From his balcony, James watches a body of men, all darkly dressed, march across the lower courtyard. They neither smile nor frown, and move tensely as though they expect an attack from any angle. These men, well-trained guards of different sorts and backgrounds, belong to him. He can trust in their skill to fight, and he can trust they are steadfast in their loyalty.

Or so he has been told.

Such words do not prevent him from wondering to whom that loyalty is bestowed: the crown or its wearer. And how could a man worthy of the crown only by birth accept he will never come to harm in their company?

He had voiced this opinion to a room of the no-longer-ruling councilors. The stone-faced men and women had looked as if it were foolish to question what was plainly fact. Then they had communicated with silent glances among themselves before speaking aloud to the tall, impassive creature standing at James' side. To him they had said, somewhat portentously, "It is up to you now."

Whatever the real discussion had been was over, the prince's part in it quickly dismissed. The councilors had filed out of the large, drafty hall, leaving behind James and the creature—his steward, it seemed—to move at their own pace.

James has not seen them since. He understands he is to rule this place without their interference because he is the rightful heir. Again, this is a fact he must accept.

He fixes his gaze beyond the courtyard, sees the top of a tiny wagon passing through the outermost gate of the grounds. It rolls and bumps along a well-trodden path curving toward a long line of trees. The prince's fingers press against the sun-warmed stone beneath them. As he studies the distant forest, his heart thuds more rapidly in his chest.

The pair of guards at the gate no longer track the progress of the wagon; their attention has turned to whatever follows it. James pictures himself walking down there to take the same road. Would they allow him to pass from the castle confines unchallenged?

He recalls the intense stare of his steward and thinks not. An unsettling thought has scraped at him minutely throughout the day, that he has become a prisoner in place of a prince. The outside of his chamber is always guarded; every door, stairway, passage is watched. It is no wonder he imagines escape, if he is to be treated as though he intends exactly that.

And who is to blame but that blasted pinch-faced—

"Sire."

James silences his thoughts and turns from the picturesque view to smile, if somewhat falsely, at the very person he had been condemning in his head.

The dark-eyed steward is standing just beyond the archway to the balcony. He does not smile back.

"Yes?" inquires James, moving indoors.

"I was informed you had no attendant doing the morning ablutions. The error has been corrected."

The steward moves aside as Jim passes him. Across the room is a slender, curly-haired man, standing as still as a mouse.

The steward beckons, "Pavel, come forward."

Pavel bows low, nervousness apparent in the fidgeting of his hands. "Sire," he greets the prince, voice high, so unusually accented that James is instantly curious to know where the young man is from.

"Pavel is your new manservant," he is told, a declaration which is promptly followed by Pavel swearing in earnest, "I shall serve you to the best of my ability!"

Dismay dampens James' curiosity. Even as he adopts the steward's careful lack of expression, he protests, "The reason I had no help this morning is because I did not require any."

"Sire," comes the insistence, "it is proper." Meaning, _We expect this of you, and you cannot change it._

James flexes a fist and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he is calm enough to speak. "Very well. Pavel, welcome."

He hesitates next, uncomfortable. Must he give an order? Looking around the too-large chamber proves futile in finding something for Pavel to do.

"The prince should be hungry," suggests the steward, "since he has not this day."

"I vell fetch a meal," responds Pavel, once again bowing low before scurrying from the chamber.

"Excellent," James mutters to himself.

All necessary introductions accomplished, the steward starts for the door.

James has no intention of letting him win so easily. "It seems to me if a prince says no, his word should stand."

The man studies James' face a moment before lifting an eyebrow. "Yes, it would seem that way."

"Then what makes me the exception?"

"If you are not the exception, then the exception does not exist."

James opens his mouth, ready to argue, only to close it in confusion. "What?"

The steward looks upon him with something far from malice and akin to pity. "You do not understand. That is acceptable, for now."

"Wait!" James calls before the other man can turn away. "If you won't give me an explanation, the least you can do is let me loose from this cage to find my own."

"Cage?"

James' open-handed gesture encompasses the whole of the chamber. "Pretty and comfortable but still a cage. I cannot stand it a moment more—nor will I," he adds grimly.

But the steward has heard him at last, the impassivity in his voice gone. "You labor under a misconception. You are not, and never shall be, kept against your will." Here, the slight crease to his brow is the only sign he is troubled. "I assumed you wanted your solitude while you healed."

"But the guards—"

"They are for your protection and to remind others that your privacy must be respected."

Why does that sound like he would be inundated with visitors otherwise? Maybe he too, James concedes, has made some false assumptions.

He says, tentatively hopeful, "Then I shall leave my chambers and..." What, exactly? "Is there something I can do?"

"What is it that you wish to do?" For once, the steward sounds mildly interested.

James has no clue, because escaping beyond the gate doesn't seem so important now that he realizes his cage is not only unlocked but the windows and doors are open too.

"Whatever it is that a prince does for his people," he decides upon.

For some reason, the steward's demeanor returns to his characteristic reserved silence.

James is disturbed. "What have I said wrong?"

"Nothing," the prince is assured. "Although had you, the fault would not be yours to bear. You are, after all, the exception by which we live." The steward straightens his spine infinitesimally and states, more formal than ever, "It is understandable you do not wish to remain idle. I will arrange a place for you in tomorrow's council meeting." He pauses. "You may review my notes beforehand if you are not familiar with the taxation laws concerning wool markets."

Having extended that olive branch, he takes his leave.

Taxes? James coughs, dismayed. As he rubs distractedly at his collarbone, an idea forms.

On the morrow, there is an unfortunate tickle in his throat, succeeded by very dramatically delivered bout of illness. The new manservant is sent along to the steward bearing a message of regret that the prince is unable to attend any meeting. It was windy, he pens into his note, on that balcony the day prior, thereby causing him to take a chill in his weakened condition.

Pavel returns very quickly with the steward's reply. "He says," the young man quotes aloud, "it has always been most unfortunate that your rooms are the draftiest in the castle." Pavel clears his throat. "...And that he hopes your excuses improve with time."

James stares at Pavel from beneath heated bedcovers. "I do not like that man," he declares.

Pavel smiles in return. James does not understand why.

[~~~]

The world does not cease to exist, up-end itself, or otherwise seem to forbid James from exploring the castle. In the most crowded areas, the great hall and kitchen, he is greeted like a host long absent by servants and nobles alike. Everyone acts pleased to see him, and more than a handful of times he is waylaid in his mission to map out and memorize the entirety of the grounds by people eager for conversation.

At midday, in the dining hall long wooden tables are laid out with simple but hearty fare. Finding he is suddenly ravenously hungry, James allows himself to be plied with every kind of dish within reach, including more than his fair share of rabbit stew. Once the main course is removed, he samples the desserts. In the midst of tasting his third honey cake, a shadow falls across the prince's chair.

"The cook is pleased with your appetite. She wishes to know if you have any requests for the evening meal."

James surveys the many platters across his table, gaze lingering on a nearly empty basket. He lifts the cake in his hand. "More of this!" Although nothing is said, James has the feeling he has amused the steward. "It's delicious?" he adds.

"Very well."

James thinks he should be offended by the man's attitude. Strangely, he is not. "Do you make a habit of following me," he asks, finishing off the honey cake, "or is everyone with whom I cross paths your spy?"

Without answering, the steward forces a cloth into the prince's hand with the admonishment, "Do not lick your fingers in front of the court."

James obliges him, but only because he feels it necessary to prove he is not entirely without manners. Groaning his way to his feet, he and the steward leave behind the dining table. James observes that as they transverse the hall in synchronized step, friendly faces no longer gravitate toward him. He remarks to his companion, "I believe you are frightening off my admirers."

As if fate means to prove him wrong, a beautiful woman intercepts their path. She says the prince's name and takes his face between her hands.

Startled, James stands very still while she searches his eyes.

Her hands slide to his shoulders. "We feared you would never return."

"Oh," he says, unthinking, and then, "Well, I have."

She stares at James a while longer before releasing him to make a proper curtsy. "Yes, of course. Welcome home, Prince." An edge lingers to her voice which James cannot interpret.

"My thanks, Lady..." He flushes. How embarrassing not to know this lovely woman's name!

"Uhura," she supplies.

Without warning he is struck by a pervading sense of nostalgia, made worse by the fact that it has no context. It may be that he sways on his feet. The steward unclasps his hands from behind his back, looking vaguely alarmed. The woman takes his hand and squeezes it in concern.

James draws in a steadying breath and decides that where memory fails, pretense must reign.

He executes a very grand and gentlemanly bow and kisses the back of Uhura's hand. "My lady, such a pleasure to see you again!" After appraising the texture of her skin and the shape of her eyes, he grins. "I see you have fared well in my absence, which might I say _greatly_ upsets me. I would think when a handsome prince of the realm goes missing, the women weep."

She plucks her fingers from his quickly, but with a laugh. "Ever the charmer, Kirk—and much too bold where common sense urges one to be meek."

Is her use of his surname deliberate or spoken out of habit? James wishes he knew. He catches her hand again and presses it with his own. "Tell me more about this folly of mine."

She does not; her expression sobers. She looks to the silent man beside the prince as if for guidance, then gently extricates her hand from James' grasp.

The lady turns to address the steward. "Will you be available tomorrow? I have a new piece lately acquired from the most wondrous bard and wish to try it."

James has not the grace to accept rejection without a fight. "Never mind him. If it is music you speak of, I could assist you. I am talented with strings!"

Unexpectedly, Uhura bursts into laughter.

James blinks, and asks the steward, "Have I made a joke?"

"Unwittingly," replies the man, tone dry. "I am afraid, sire, I must request that you touch no musical instrument in an attempt to prove this talent of yours."

James straightens, offended. "I am certain I can play!"

"No," the woman assures him, "you cannot." She pats his shoulder, eyes sparkling. "Oh but, dearest James, the thought is much appreciated." With a quick glance at his companion, she leans in to whisper loudly, "Barring music, if you are in need of entertainment, simply ask him for a game of chess. If you are refused, then ask _me_."

Still smiling, she dips into another curtsy then glides away from them, the long braid of her hair swinging across her back.

"Huh," says the prince, not longer quite so envious or peeved. He remarks to his companion, "I have a feeling I would gladly marry that woman, were her affections not devoted elsewhere."

Rather than confirming the suspicion, the steward retreats several steps in the opposite direction before turning about to stare down James, who is left standing by himself. Almost immediately a flock of ladies and lordlings descend on him.

"Ack!" he cries, discovering extrication is impossible from so enthusiastic a crowd. "Whence did my steward go!"

"Oh, he left," says a pretty young woman with flouncy curls and an even more flouncy, if dreary-colored, dress. "We were thinking," she tells her liege, dimples abound, "of color."

"Color?" James repeats, very much frightened by her effervescent tone.

"Yes, Prince!" She plucks at the sleeve of his tunic, then her dress. "All this drab black. I dare say it's time for a change!"

Everyone nods or makes noises of assent.

Resigned to an earful, James says politely, "Tell me," and the woman does.

[~~~]

"I feel exhausted!"

The prince's manservant pauses while fussing with a blanket on the bed. "Sire?"

James splashes his face with cold water from a small basin and looks at his reflection in a gilded mirror. "I'm tired, Pavel—but a good kind of tired." He pauses. "Did you know I have no colorful clothes in my wardrobe?"

He had checked after being informed by several nobles that his mode of dress was no better than theirs.

"Of course not, sire," Pavel says. "No one has worn a dye other than black or a trimming not in gold since you went away. The black symbolizes our grief. The gold symbolizes you."

For a moment James is too astonished to speak. Faced with Pavel's lack of guile, he manages at last, "But how long would you have worn it if I had never returned?"

"Forever," the young man answers, voice serious.

James turns back to study his reflection more thoroughly and is disappointed to find the mirror holds no answers. There is no understanding such devotion, he concludes later as he slips into bed.

His manservant extinguishes every candle except one before quietly removing himself to the antechamber. Time passes at a slow crawl while James stares into the semi-darkness above his bed. He is still tired but too uneasy to sleep.

Near to dawn, the feeling fades and he dreams. In his dream, he is on a path away from the castle. The people at his back have tears on their faces. Ahead of him, alone, waits his steward.

When James passes by, the man asks, quite contrary to the lack of emotion on his face, "How do I not feel this?"

James cannot think of a proper answer no matter how far he walks.

[~~~]

The next two weeks fly by, the autumn days growing shorter and brisker as the season advances.

"This is nice," compliments James, walking the length of a large room to study the intricate patterns inlaid across the floor. His soft brown boots meet with a dais at the very end, and he retraces his steps.

"The road will become impassable with the change of seasons," says his steward, who waits for him in the middle of the room. "It is tradition to hold a celebration before the first snow, when those who travel here can do so safely."

"And is there to be a celebration this year?"

"If you approve it."

James turns to the man, surprised. "Amazing! I did not think you knew how to ask permission."

The man's mouth twitches. "Much falls within my purview which requires no approval other than my own, as your acting second. This—" His gaze sweeps across the floor. "—is not one of those details."

The prince laughs, delighted. "Permission granted!"

"Good," replies his companion at the same time a lady in a plain silk dress appears across the room. "I have taken the liberty of acquiring you a dance instructor."

James stops laughing at this news. "I can dance," he says, indignant. "Come here!" he calls out to the blond-haired woman, as though she were not already moving in his direction. "This person insults me! Let us prove my skill!" James clears his throat and tugs at his embroidered gold doublet. "Do I look all right?"

"I fail to see how your appearance has relevance."

"With the approach of a beautiful woman, there is always relevance. Besides, you are as vain as I am." He gestures at the man's outfit. "Of all the dyes possible, you had to pick blue for your new tunic? It doesn't seem your color." Glancing at the woman's dress, he adds, "Although I think blue must be popular these days."

As the prince's gaze transfers to her face, he stills. "Do I know her?"

"You do," his steward says. "She attended you in the healing room upon your return."

James steps forward and addresses the woman. "Forgive me the lapse, my lady... I do not recall your name."

"Christine, Prince." She curtsies briefly, tone light and any evidence of simpering absent. "We will practice your basse danse and minuet."

"Not the waltz?"

"You are proficient at the waltz." At his puzzled look, she adds kindly, "You have had dancing lessons with me before, sire. What the mind may forgot, the body often does not."

She lifts her arms, taking the proper promenade stance. James steps into the embrace.

"Will there be no music?"

Christine smiles. "On the second or third lesson." But she does begin to hum under her breath.

It is only later, as the dance instructor corrects the alignment of his shoulders for the tenth time, that James realizes his steward left the room while he was occupied.

"He believes in you," the woman in James' arms says softly, seeing the question in his eyes.

"Sometimes I wonder about that," James murmurs, pulling her close to lay his cheek upon her hair. "...How it is that he can care for both castle and prince without tiring of it all."

"Because he considers it his duty, not his chore."

James quirks a corner of his mouth. "On the contrary, I have been told I am a great and onerous chore."

But Christine does not laugh at the joke. She frowns, wanting to know, "Told by whom?"

James thinks to answer but discovers he cannot. "By whom, indeed?" he muses, his humor gone, and sweeps his dance partner into a jig he can perform admirably.

"Stop, stop!" she cries between laughs as they stomp madly across the floor.

James grins, secretly glad there will be no further questions. It is too difficult to explain, even to a sympathetic soul, how it feels to know something without remembering why.

He can ponder later, in privacy, who would have dared called a prince a chore.

[~~~]

The ring of metal on metal is a resonance left in his head from a particularly vivid dream, prompting James to visit the guard house one morning. Only briefly he has been out in the open since acclimating to the castle life, once through the gardens and once down in the stables to inspect the horses (who did not respond as skittishly to him as he did to them). But he has not been this far, nearly to the drawbridge. From where he stands now, he can see it. The prince has to look away.

Men are practicing their swordwork in the weapons yard. The first to notice James' approach is a dark-haired fellow in leather and chain mail, who crosses the yard to meet him. He bows, the calm in his eyes startling.

"Sire," the man greets, matter-of-fact, "I understand you do not remember me." For a moment he looks like he might extend a hand in introduction, but instead dips his chin in deference. "I am Sulu."

"Arms master and captain of the Royal Guard," James adds readily, for he has been schooled in the various positions and titles held within his domain. "Sulu, well-met. I believe you were my personal guard at one time."

"Sire," says the guardsman, bowing again, sounding pleased. "I was."

James skims the yard and the barracks beyond it, freely admitting the truth as he sees it. "It seems a gift to know that much. I have been told I may never recover my past."

"Perhaps there was some part of it that is better forgotten."

"It could be," he says, "but not the entirety of it, I think." He releases a breath and squares his shoulders, flicking a smile at the guardsman. "No more talk of what cannot be changed. What say we spar?"

Sulu lifts his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Is that wise?"

Ah, a challenge!

The prince declares, flexing his fingers inside his gloves, "It is entirely wise! Mind you, my grip may be a little weak from lack of practice—which happens to be no fault of my own. I only recently convinced my mother hen of a steward that I would not die from fresh air."

Sulu breathes deeply, as if to taste the quality of the air himself. "It is chilly today, sire." He smiles slightly. "But I am no mother hen."

"Excellent!" exclaims the prince. He points to the barracks. "There is small armory inside, correct?"

Sulu nods. James has to wonder how long Sulu was his personal guard, for there is a deep sense of familiarity that accompanies them as they cross the yard together, side by side.

"The men?" he asks on a whim.

"Well enough," responds the prince's companion. "Restless, perhaps. The coming of winter always has an odd effect on the ranks, but while the practice grounds remain unfrozen, we will cope."

James unthinkingly shudders. Hearing about winter causes his bones to ache. "I suppose if we had to fight..."

Sulu's smile is thin but genuine. "No man in his right mind thinks of fighting this time of year, Captain."

"Captain?" James stops walking.

The guardsman draws in a small breath and clears his throat, a hint of color rising up from beneath the neck line of his chain mail. "My apologies, sire," he begins, "I forgot..."

James waves away the rest of the explanation. "Apology unnecessary. I know it was not so long ago that I captained the guard myself."

He had been told that as part of a lesson but, just now, he _knows it_ to be true.

The prince throws out an arm on instinct. His companion catches it, holds onto it, grounding them both.

"So I was your captain before I left." James almost laughs and, straightening, pulls his arm away out of the guardsman's grip. "And now here I stand, your prince. Is that not odd to you?"

"You are who you were trained to be since the day of your birth. There is nothing odd about it, sire."

James shakes his head slightly. "Yet if I could give it up, I would."

"Why?"

"For a purely selfish reason. My princedom and I do not suit."

"You should not say that," Sulu admonishes, frowning.

James drops a hand to the man's shoulder. "You are right, of course. Forget my words—and please do not tell any of this to the steward. He has been trying his best to shape me into the legend I used to be or am foretold to be. Honestly, I am not quite certain which it is," he finishes wryly.

Sulu argues, "I do not think you understand."

But James has no desire to listen further. "I want you to know I have no regrets over your appointment, Sulu. You are a great captain."

Resigned to the end of the discussion, Sulu makes a fist and places it over his heart. "You do me too much honor."

In silence they continue to the armory.

Once inside the building, James admires the many and varied kinds of weaponry mounted on the walls. When he sees a rack of bows and arrows, he has the best of ideas.

Sulu intercepts him, saying, "Not those."

Bows do not look particularly deadly to James. "Why not?"

"A sword would be better," insists the guardsman.

James hears more than this in the man's tone of voice and narrows his eyes. "I can handle a bow and arrow, Sulu."

Something which is very like amusement crosses Sulu's face. "It would be best not to tempt fate, sire."

James' eyes narrows a little more. He pushes past the man and outfits himself with the largest bow he can find. Then he stalks from the armory to the range. His very offensive friend follows, head shaking. James pretends not to notice the way the other people in the area abandon their swordplay upon seeing his approach; but rather than coming along to watch their prince's glorious display of skill, they either raise shields or hurry to find shelter.

As it turns out, James does have a peculiar talent with bow and arrow. He can make his arrows go in the wildest directions without adjusting his aim.

"That isn't a skill," Sulu tells him later on, while they sip ale in the great hall.

"But I did almost hit that donkey," James argues.

"And likely the beast will have his revenge on you when you least expect it."

James considers that possibility. "True... He did look somewhat vengeful."

Sulu lifts his mug. "A toast to the beast, then, who nearly avoided death at the hands of our great Prince James."

James drinks to that. "Tomorrow I'll try the sword."

Sulu smiles. "You'll be good with that, sire—and better still with a short blade."

"A short blade," echoes the prince, seeing no reason not to disbelieve his friend.

[~~~]

In his chamber mirror, James has watched his face change with the passing weeks. The hollows have flattened, the lines etched about his mouth disappeared; even the color of his eyes is clearer. His court does not lie when they compliment him, commenting that his recovery from misfortune has been remarkably swift.

Today, he feels, his face is a lie.

An early morning practice session with the dagger under Sulu's tutelage had left him sweaty and wondering where the bones in his arms and legs had gone. He had bathed then fallen on his bed, intending to close his eyes only for a moment. He slept instead. Pavel had woken him when he began gasping for air like a drowning man. The dream which had terrified him so, although hardly remembered, has left him shaky.

James finds himself knocking on a door in a part of the castle he seldom frequents. A voice bides him enter from within.

The steward is at a table, quill in hand, looking up from a massive book. For the briefest moment, his eyes are full of numbers; then he lays the quill down and gives the prince his undivided attention.

James doesn't know what he came to say until he says it: "I am in no mood for tonight's celebration."

Nothing changes in the steward's expression. "Shall I cancel the affair?"

That would disappoint so many. "No, I suppose not." James paces toward the table and back to the door. "But is it necessary that I attend?"

"You always have that option."

The prince tangles his fingers in his hair. "Damn you, I wanted a yes or a no, Spock!" He stops short, says again, "Spock," and twists around to stare at his steward.

Spock only tilts his head in his customary way, looking at James as if nothing is amiss. "Why would I give you a definitive answer when the choice is not mine?" He picks up his quill. "I will advise you, however, that a brief dance with Lady Marcus would appease her father, as well as the woman herself."

James drags a high-backed chair to the table and sits down. "Never mind Marcus' daughter." He leans forward on his elbows. "How long have you known me?"

"Since before the original date of your coronation," Spock answers readily. "One year and two months, to be exact."

James frowns. "And before that, the place from whence you came—it is far away." He can see it in his mind's eye: somewhere the earth is not green or cold, instead a plain of fine dust where stars fall, burning white, into small red flame. The detail of his imagination startles him. "Have I been there?"

"I do not know."

"But I've been somewhere," the prince remarks glumly. "You also know nothing about that."

Spock does not react to the accusation.

James sighs through his nose, and apologizes. "Forgive me. I woke feeling not like myself. I know you would not keep a secret from me."

"There are no secrets here," Spock assures him, "no threats or duplicity."

"I could not be safer," James guesses that Spock might say next.

"Precisely." The man dips the nib of his quill into ink and scratches out a line in the book in front of him.

James accepts the dismissal wordlessly, replacing the chair by the wall and leaving the small study. If he lingers in the empty corridor against the closed door, thinking for all that he might be safe, he certainly is not happy, that is no one's business but his own.

[~~~]

The dinner before the dancing is the most extravagant James has encountered yet. An array of shimmering silk and flashing jewels make a tapestry of color under the mellow gold light of a thousand candles. Expertly made centerpieces grace each table, a menagerie of animal shapes, some beasts James has seen, and some too fantastical to believe they exist. Halfway through the meal, Uhura and Spock move to a raised platform and provide music, the latter strumming a soft tune on his lyre which the former lends a sweet melody of words.

James' heart aches.

One of the visiting noblemen stands, holding his wine glass aloft, and proposes a toast to the House of Kirk.

James stands as well and after the accolade honoring his royal ancestors adds, "A House is nothing without family. Though we may not share blood, we share a heart. To my Court!"

Everyone cheers at that.

As he sits down again, he hears somewhere farther along the table voices snide in their commentary, saying an entire court cannot replace an heir. If the great Prince James Tiberius Kirk does not find a bride soon, he'll have to contend with war. And it wouldn't be the first time, they whisper, that an arrogant man has been ousted from the throne because of his own folly.

His fingers clench around his goblet. He remembers some of Spock's lessons in diplomacy and spends the rest of the meal picking and choosing carefully with whom to converse. No one calls him a careless ruler outright to his face. For that he is grateful; he knows there would be nothing diplomatic in his response to such an insult.

In time, the feasting is finished and they all move on to the ballroom. James makes certain to claim Lady Uhura's first dance.

As they move through the courtly maneuvers, hand over hand, he compliments her. "Red is clearly the best color for you."

She smiles, her lips a shade of ruby to match her dress. "And you, my Prince, who is covered in gold from head to toe nearly _blinds_ me."

James laughs. "It's like looking into a sun," he agrees cheerfully. "Blame it on my manservant. He swears gold is the color of command."

The lady in his arms laughs and cuts her eyes slyly to the side. "What do you make of Spock's attire?"

"Oh no," groans the prince. "The person who convinced him he looks royal in blue should be _murdered_. Honestly, I preferred him in black."

"Remind me to show you the traditional garb of his homeland."

"Oh gods," James says, "what is it? Yellow? Purple?"

"Easter egg."

They both pause, look each other in the eyes, and burst out laughing.

Tears try to leak out of the prince's eyes. "What is easter egg?" he asks while trying to calm his reaction.

"I have no idea," his partner replies, and they keep dancing.

[~~~]

He could not spend all his time with Uhura, so he grudgingly hands her over to the next waiting lord and dances with other women whose company he enjoys. Then he dances with the less desirable partners, the last of which steps on his toes no less than three times and tries to tuck his face into her bosom.

He finally escapes upward, climbing stairs to the second-floor gallery where the music swells to bursting, and leans against a balustrade to watch the event below. The ballroom is alive with color, noise, and movement. Footmen dart in and out among the swells of people like bright fish, bearing wine or answering summons. At the very heart, men and women create elaborate patterns of blues, yellows and reds with their dancing.

He begins to relax. Everyone appears so happy. He wants to soak in that happiness for himself.

"Tired already?"

James looks aside. He had not heard the approach, but then soft slippers make hardly any sound on the floor when their owner walks lightly.

Carol Marcus is a vision in silver. The material of her gown is thin enough to sway and shimmer with the tiniest of movements.

"Lady of the moon," he names her.

"Apropos," she concedes, coming to stand beside him. "And shall I tell you what you are what?"

"Of course. What am I?"

"The man on the white steed."

"A warrior," he surmises.

"No," Carol corrects, "not even a great king, simply a savior. That, perhaps, is the most important kind of man."

James turns his gaze back to the ball, jesting, "I see no one who needs saving at the moment."

Carol comes to stand beside him. "You wouldn't," she says, "when your people have already been saved." Her hand rests on the railing besides his. "James..."

To turn to her now would be folly, when she is so close. From the corner of his eye, he can see the graceful slope of her neck, her collarbone, both unadorned.

A silence stretches between them until the woman sighs.

"Tomorrow," she says, her fingers daring to trail across his. "I'll be painting in the gardens. Come there."

Offer delivered, she leaves.

[~~~]

The side casements overlook the gardens behind the castle. The prince's hair has grown longer over the weeks, and now the wind is constantly pushing strands of it across his eyes. He will have to remember he needs it trimmed. Maybe his manservant is an expert at such things.

After much searching, he finds an unusual spot of white-gold among the landscape that is Lady Marcus and her attendants. She is indeed attempting to paint.

What would come of joining her there? It would please her father, surely, who thinks to marry her into a royal line. And with the way she touched him last night, the notion would please her too.

He wonders if the man he had been once would have thought well of the union, if not the dalliance itself. It is a question he should ask Spock, who he has lately concluded is the least inclined to lie to him of anyone he knows.

His attention is drawn from Carol to a narrow garden path leading down the back of the hill. It has an abrupt end at the forest and, unlike the road curving away from the castle's front gate, he has never seen a soul upon it. If the prince squints, lifting a hand against the angle of the sun, he can almost make out the exact spot where the path tapers into the tree line.

Because he is looking, he sees the shadow moving independently of the trees. It is too large to be a hare, he thinks. A doe, more likely, traveling near the edge. Sometimes deer come out of the forest, none-the-wiser that the humans in the castle consider them game.

In the next moment, the shadow is gone. James makes up his mind to go down there and investigate. He has always been curious about the forest.

It does not occur to him until too late that Carol would have someone on the outlook for him, same as he had gone to the casements to look for her. He strides into the gardens at a good pace, disturbing a handful of birds. He is waylaid immediately by a young girl in a yellow dress. She curtsies somewhat clumsily in front of him and says, "I am to take you to the Lady Marcus."

James opens and closes his mouth, all-at-once certain that he is caught between a rock and a hard place. A slight to Carol (such as rudely walking away) would jeopardize the alliance with her father. The only diplomatic way to make his disinterest known would have been to stay away from the gardens completely.

Why do these things not make sense to him beforehand?

He resigns himself to the fact that his steward will be cross with him.

Accepting his folly, James follows the girl. Carol awaits his approach, eyes shining, looking slightly breathless. Her hands, although they are demurely laced before her, suffer the occasional tremor.

James feels terrible. "I came to..." He trails off, taking in the other attentive women with Carol.

Carol turns to the oldest and says, "I believe I am done for the day." Her hand indicates the nearby paints and canvas. "Would you please return these items to my room?"

"Milady," the woman murmurs, "your father has ordered that someone remain with you at all times."

"I shan't tell my father," Carol says, tone at once mischievous but firm. "If he asks, you have gone to fetch a cloak. I find it suddenly chilly."

The attendant seems resigned to these orders. She herds the other girls from the gardens, instructing them to stay silent should someone ask after their lady. Carol watches them go then returns her attention to the prince.

"I am most pleased that you came, James."

He cannot say he is here by mistake. He cannot say he forgot. There are so many words that will do him wrong—except for the truth.

"Lady Marcus," he says in his most formal tone, "you honor me, truly, but I have no intentions of pursuing a marriage not based in love."

Her smile falters, and some emotion, too fleeting to be identified, crosses her face. "Who is to say you could not come to love me? I honestly believe I will love you, and you would need never worry I would be unfaithful or un-devoted."

"And if I were unfaithful to you?" he asks, curious, for it is a common enough occurrence among the high-born.

She lowers her gaze from his. "No woman agrees to marriage with a prince ignorant of her duty."

James sighs softly through his nose. "Carol, I will be frank. I will not marry soon. Any courtship we began now would be a farce, and it would set your father to scheming."

She looks at him, then. "My father already schemes."

James dips his chin in acknowledgment of this truth. "As do many others. I and my court will handle it."

Carol presents him with her profile. "I should have known you would not be amendable to a game, or a tryst for that matter. Everyone here speaks so highly of you. I thought..." She pauses. "Well, I thought to hold you to the same expectations I have had for every lord or high-ranking noble my father wishes me to pay attention to. I beg your forgiveness, Prince."

"You have it," he promises. Making a snap decision, James offers the woman his arm. "I had a mind to follow one of the paths in this garden. Would you care to walk it with me... as a friend?"

Carol's eyes seem momentarily bright as she winds her arm through his; then she pulls back her shoulders, the hint of vulnerability gone. They soon find the path which he saw from high above.

"Oh," his companion says when their destination becomes clear, "are we to go into the woods? Is it dangerous?"

"I have not then been there lately," he replies, when in truth he has not been in the forest that he can remember. "But as I have lived here all my life, I am certain it is safe."

They start down the hill. Though it is some distance away, he notices that the shadow at the tree line is back and quickens their pace.

"Do you miss them?" Carol asks suddenly, clutching tightly at the prince's arm for balance. "The other places you have been?"

James stops, his boots skidding slightly on loose pebbles. "I hardly remember where I was."

"Were you ill?"

"Delirious, mayhap. When I staggered to the gate, I did not know my own name." Or so he is told.

Her eyes search his, as if looking for some lingering sign of the event. "That is troubling, sire."

"I know," he agrees and starts downward again, stopping every so often to survey what is ahead of them. "Now that I consider it, I must have had enough presence of mind to know where I was going."

Carol begins to reply, but a voice calls out behind them, echoing her name. They turn back to look. One of Carol's ladies-in-waiting stands at the top of the hill, trying to catch their attention. She seems desperate that they go no farther.

"It will be my father, having surmised we are not chaperoned," Carol remarks knowingly. "For all that he loves power, he loves propriety more."

"That seems ironic."

Carol's mouth twists. "Doesn't it, though?"

James sighs, casting a last glance at the forest below. Then he escorts his companion back to the gardens and into the castle, where she is hurried away by nervous attendants. And before he can return to the hill, he too is accosted.

"I did nothing wrong," James tells his steward.

Spock steers James toward a council room. "I will take care to assure Lord Marcus of that—if he allows me to speak with him between his household's frantic packing and their soon-to-be departure."

James suppresses an urge to fidget. "At least I didn't start a war," he offers, taking a seat in an elegantly carved chair before Spock shoves him into it.

"With Marcus," replies the steward, "one can never tell. In the future, please refrain from providing him with an excuse."

"Yes, sir!" James quips.

Spock looks at him oddly, then secures the attention of the other men in the room. "Our previous meeting identified a need to revisit the controls surrounding the storage and distribution of last year's harvest during the winter months. Prince Kirk has agreed to lead the discussion."

Everyone turns and looks expectantly at James.

James mutters, "Your punishments are very cruel and unusual, Spock."

Spock folds his hands on the table, clearly not one to deny an accusation that is true.

Looking at him, James knows he has lost this battle and, with resignation, smiles most pathetically at the other people in the room. At the very least, they can pity him for his fate.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

The days following the celebration are dull. A majority of the visiting nobles have started their long journey home in the wake of Marcus and his daughter. Some stay, however, finding that they fit seamlessly into the life of James' court. The prince wishes to turn none of them away.

Spock, being sensible and also privy to the exact amount of gold in the royal coffers, requests that James join him one early afternoon to determine how they will continue to support an ever-increasing headcount. The prince suspects his steward will advise that everyone be put to work in some form or fashion so that they are earning their keep. In the meantime, imagining some of the more arrogant lords in the castle wearing livery and mucking out the stables has become a great source of entertainment to James.

While laughing to himself he reaches to the usual spot for his boots and, to his surprise, discovers them missing.

"Pavel!" James calls after searching his wardrobe and under the bed for the missing boots.

His manservant hurries into the chamber, his good mood apparent for all to see. "Yes, sire?"

"My boots..." he says, looking around helplessly. "I think they walked off."

"Boots do not valk themselves," Pavel assures him. He disappears into the antechamber and comes back with a pair of boots in hand. "Yours are replaced!"

James accepts the new pair with wariness. They are hardly supple, not leather, and black as an adder. "What," he asks Pavel, inspecting the strange soles of the boots, "was wrong with the old ones?"

"They are not ze fashion," says the young man. After James steps into one boot, Pavel kneels down to adjust its fit on his foot. "It is better to vear zis style now. They are hard, da?" He raps on the toe.

James looks from his foot to Pavel's feet and sees that Pavel is already wearing this supposedly better kind of boot. "So... all men in the castle will have them?" At least he won't be embarrassed.

"And some of ze women!"

The prince sputters. "What?"

Pavel makes a face. "Though it does not look good with ze dresses. I think Lady Uhura wants to change zhem too. Lots of fabric is good in winter but is uncomfortable ze rest of ze year." He forces James' other foot into the second boot and laces it up. "Now, vhere I come from, it is cold _all_ year and everyone vears fur. Even little ones."

James is stuck at imagining a mode of female fashion which does not involve an abundance of brocade, lace, and ruffles. "What does Spock think?"

"He is smart. He says one does not have an opinion when ze ladies decide vhat zey are going to do."

James turns his laugh into a series of coughs. Pavel stands up and retrieves a golden cloak, which he settles about the prince's shoulders. James catches the clasp, shaped like an arrowhead, and fastens it at his neck.

"Thank you, Pavel. I had better go, or I will be late to meet my exceptionally smart steward."

"Good luck," offers the young man.

James pauses at the door. He looks down and stomps his left foot several times. "Huh. They aren't as uncomfortable as they look. Send word to Sulu that these will be mandatory for guards too."

"I can do zat," declares Pavel, and follows the prince from the room.

[~~~]

Even constant companions can seem wholly unimaginative after a long period of time spent together. Thus James is walking the length of the castle by himself in search of unusual entertainment. In theory there should be no place he cannot go, so when he comes upon a hall of forgotten rooms far from the guest quarters, he has to know what is inside them. But none of the rooms prove to be as interesting as he had hoped, some containing old children's toys, others completely bare. He walks on.

He finally encounters a door which he _knows_ has a history behind it, courtesy of his having memorized the layout of the castle grounds. He rattles the handle of the door several times, for it is locked, and when that does nothing contemplates kicking it down.

Property damage, the prince nearly recalls too late, has to be reported. He lowers his foot, having no desire for yet another unfortunate conversation with Spock.

There is little choice: James catches a hold of the nearest footman and asks him where the key to the door is.

The footman does not seem to understand the question at first. He says, somewhat stupidly, "Sire?"

James tamps down on his frustration. "This door must be locked by mistake."

The young man starts to nod.

"Therefore we will unlock it, and then go through it."

The nodding quickly changes to head shaking. "Nobody uses that door!"

The prince narrows his eyes. "How else am I to make my way to the south tower?"

"But the south tower is condemned!"

"I have _business_ at the south tower."

"You couldn't possibly!"

How many times must he explain his rationale to this poor man? "Listen—" James tries again, circling an arm around the man's shoulders and drawing him closer. "Riley, right?"

"Kevin Riley, sire."

"Riley, I understand your apprehension completely. The steward is a frightening man. He scares me too, especially when I think I'm all alone, and he steps out of a dark corner the way he loves to do."

"He does that," agrees Kevin. "A lot."

"The truth is," continues James, barely suppressing a wicked smile, "Spock's _hiding_ in that corner. His people are very shy by nature."

Kevin eyes him dubiously. "Not that I'm claiming to believe you... but what does that have to do with breaking the rules?"

James grins. "Everything. Sometimes rules are made to be broken, especially the rules that make no sense. I don't think Spock has a good reason to keep us out of the south tower. I think he's simply avoiding what he doesn't know. So what I'm going to do is this: take a peek, come back and report what I find. Then he'll feel much better about it all." James adds, after no sign of understanding appears on Kevin's face, "Don't you trust me?"

The footman nods. "Sure, I do. I just... the plan doesn't seem... I mean, I don't know what it is that bothers me," he goes on to explain, "except that I have to wonder what will happen when your plan _doesn't_ work."

"It will," James says in his most confident voice. "Now get me that key."

Footmen often aren't given choices. They know this. Kevin sighs. "The Keeper would have it."

"Then get me the Keeper," the prince amends and releases his hold on the young man.

Shaking his head as if he cannot believe what he is about to do, Kevin runs off to complete his errand.

[~~~]

The Keeper is the slowest man in existence but he is also funny and makes James forget in an instant his ire at being kept waiting. The man shows up alone, no footman in sight.

"So ye be wanting to go in there?" he questions James, lifting up a large iron ring of keys into a slant of sunlight and sorting through the keys slowly. "Does the steward know about this by chance?"

James crosses his arms. "In other castles is a prince's authority questioned so much?"

"Doubt it. Only yours," the man replies.

The prince's mouth twitches. "Was that a joke?"

"Wasn't supposed to be."

The men look at each other. One starts to chuckle. The other follows suit.

The Keeper extends a hand. "We've met before, 'course, but it's good to see ye again. You call me Scotty."

James shakes the proffered hand. "Nice to meet you—again."

"Same."

James returns his arms to their formerly crossed position. "All right, Scotty, so where's that key?"

"Well now, hold your horses!" The man mutters something under his breath about princes and _bloody impatient as ever_.

James chooses to ignore the complaint.

After Scotty locates the correct key and the door is unlocked, they still have to set their shoulders against it and push because the hinges are stiff from disuse. James sticks his head into the opened passageway and inhales the stale air. He look down, sees worn, chipped steps and dark beyond the stone. Along the inner wall is an old torch stick leaning sideways in a cobwebbed holder. He grabs it and brings it into the daylight of the larger corridor.

Scotty eyes the torch, shaking his head. "That cloth is too old. It'll burn up 'fore you can take three steps." He opens a satchel attached to his belt and pulls out an instrument James has never seen before. They trade.

"What is it?" the prince asks, intrigued as he turns the object over in his hand.

"I fiddle with things in my spare time. It's like a little lantern in your hand. Once the wick is lit, the mirror inside directs the light of the flame. Just point it where ye want to see."

"That's remarkable!" James exclaims.

Scotty looks pleased. "Aye."

James use the fire from a taper in a nearby wall sconce to light the tiny lantern.

Scotty warns him, "Now be sure ye dinnae drop it or accidentally blow out the flame while mucking about in dark places. And _dinnae_," the man emphasizes, "tell anyone I saw you off without an armed guard. I fancy keepin' my head."

When James points out that he used to be a captain of a guard and it's very likely he knows how to take care of himself, Scotty snorts. The prince is not certain what is so amusing about the truth.

The Keeper gives him one last look, then jingles the ring of keys in his hand. "Well, what are ye waiting for, lad?" he asks, still amused. "Ye won't get another head start!"

Clearly this Scotty is a man after his own heart, James thinks. He hurries through the open door and begins his exploration of forbidden ground.

[~~~]

James stays on the main passageway although it branches on occasion into tiny alcoves and other darker side passages. When he begins to question how much farther he has to go, he comes to a set of stairs that fan out from a central core of stone and circle upward. He climbs them slowly, panting a bit, until he meets a door. It isn't locked or barred from the inside.

The tower chamber is empty, covered in a thick layer of dust. He stirs some of it up as he moves forward. In the corner lies a disheveled pallet, as if the person who used it had had to abandon it suddenly. The linens are yellow with age.

A single window overlooks the hillside and lower rampart. For a reason no one can discern, the south side of the hill barely has grass, looking for all intents and purposes like it bears a permanent scar from a long-ago battle. James doesn't linger at the tower window, feeling like a trespasser in an old story. He blames his uneasiness on the cold wind that whistles through the gaps in the stone.

The mystery here is no more interesting than the other forgotten rooms. James stirs the pallet with his boot, disappointed. A mouse scurries out. He starts back toward the open door.

Something stops him by giving a light tug on the back of his doublet.

Breath caught in his throat, James stays very still for a long time. Finally, when nothing else happens, he forces himself to turn around and lifts the little lantern chest-high. The room is empty, save the pallet and the mouse. James shivers without meaning to.

It had to have been the wind or his imagination. Maybe some combination of both.

He releases his breath and strides to the doorway. His feet have barely touched the threshold when he feels the distinct depression of a hand into the center of his back. He leaps forward with a yelp, unthinking, and misses the first and second stair, landing to totter on the edge of the third.

Clinging to the stone wall with stiff fingers, he rights his footing and prays more fervently that whatever is behind him—the ghost (because it had had a hand, a _hand!_)—doesn't push him down the remainder of the stairs.

He starts to edge downward one step at a time until his sense of urgency is too great to ignore and plunges the rest of the way to the base of the tower. There, he leans in the passageway and just breathes, arms and legs shaking.

It's a foolish thing to believe in supernatural forces, he has always thought. Yet now, faced with little possible explanation for his experience, he doubts he could ever think that way again. No wonder the south tower has been abandoned!

"I have a haunted castle," he half-laughs, half-giggles.

Adventure over, James cradles Scotty's lantern in both hands and hurries back the way he came along the passage. To his great relief, he soon hears the sound of people approaching from the opposite direction, or what he hopes are living people, and calls out, "Here!" He knows his assumption is right when he sees the faint glow of a torch.

A group of guards come into sight, Sulu leading them. The fire of their torches deepens the red of the dye of their new uniforms. Sulu lowers his sword and quickens his pace when he recognizes James.

"Sire!" Sulu calls out, voice sharp. "Are you all right?"

James assures the man he is and admits, chagrined, "I would love to get out of here. I think I met a ghost."

One of the guards almost drops his torch. He starts looking around a bit wildly.

Sulu's grim expression turns grimmer. "You shouldn't have come here alone, not without someone for protection."

James is ready to agree for the sake of hurrying the conversation along when Sulu adds, "Spock has reassigned me as your personal guard. From now on where you go, I do too."

He bursts out with "No!", appalled by the idea that they want him leashed like a wayward child.

Sulu says, "It's done."

All emotions flee James except one: a deep, fiery anger. "It isn't _done_," he says in a tone that has some of the guards recoiling, "because I'm recalling the order."

Before anyone can argue, the prince pushes past the group and stalks toward the end of the passage and the door he had been foolish enough to open.

Spock, that utter _fool._

Who is the highest-ranking? Who is the commander of the men? Who holds the ultimate responsibility for every life given into his service?

_The prince does_, and no amount of rule-citing or righteous logic will change that!

He doesn't realize he has been muttering to himself in his fury until someone catches at his arm and halts his progress through the castle.

"What?" James snaps in the guardsman's face.

He and Sulu are alone. If anyone sees them squaring off in the middle of the corridor, they go back the way they came.

"You're angry," Sulu says, an obvious statement which prompts causes James' nostrils to flare at the insult. "I tried to tell you before, you don't understand the rules we're operating under. It's Spock's _job_ to keep you safe, as it is mine."

"Do you think I'm a child?"

"No."

"Then what," James grates out, "is the problem? I have been tolerant of the excessive concern and the fragile treatment and even the vague explanations that accompany both. I have allowed the distractions. But if each of you feels you must continue to act this way, then I am _not_ your liege."

Sulu's mouth flattens in distress.

"You would never treat a man you respected that way. You would never cage me," James finishes, and walks away.

This time Sulu does not follow him.

[~~~]

The prince takes his meals in the privacy of his room for the next two days. Pavel looks at him with a troubled expression, which means word has spread quickly of his public outburst. That may be the reason the steward keeps his distance for the time being, or it may be that Spock intends to see how long James can bear his grudge.

He swears he will bear it forever.

A prince's duty, however, will not wait that long. On the third day he dresses in his best outfit for the weekly council meeting he has taken to attending on his own. He is prepared to face the surreptitious glances and whispering behind hands.

But he is not prepared to be told the meeting is cancelled.

"What?" he says, astonished, after being informed.

The little man, a scholar, who delivered the news blinks at him from behind owlishly round glasses. "Sir, I mean, _sire_, a thief stole into the stables last night and let loose all the horses. Took two of the best breed."

James sucks in a breath. "Why was I not told of this?"

The scholar gives a halfhearted shrug. "I'm sorry. I have no clue. I only know our meeting is postponed while the steward and the captain of the guard investigate the matter."

James goes to the steward's study. It is empty. Then he goes to the guard house. No one can give him a direction in which to pursue Sulu. Frustrated, he heads to the stables. Everything appears in order, except that the horses restlessly shake their manes after having their freedom curtailed. There is little else to do beyond returning to his chambers.

He does, and there he paces. His manservant abandons whatever chore he was doing to watch the prince stalk back and forth across the room.

"Vhat can I do?"

"Nothing," James tell him, reply too terse to be considered polite. Immediately, he regrets his tone and amends, "I just, I would rather be alone to think."

Pavel's gaze drops to the floor.

James bites the inside of his cheek and adds, "But not that I mean to kick you out." An idea comes to him. "Would you do me a favor?"

The young man brightens. "Yes!"

"Go to the library and fetch me a book on..." He doesn't want a book and looks around the room for a subject. His gaze falls on the view beyond the balcony, and he finishes with "Maps! A book of maps."

Pavel bows, although his expression means he believes this to be a somewhat dubious task, and leaves to do as asked.

James waits until the moment he feels Pavel must be far enough away, then steals some of the young man's garments from the antechamber and disappears into the corridor himself.

If there is a thief on the grounds, he will catch him!

[~~~]

Slipping out of the castle unnoticed is more difficult than James anticipated. He has to bribe a pretty chambermaid named Janice with a kiss on the cheek so she won't say she saw the crown prince sneaking down the back stairs of the servants' quarters. He causes a ruckus in a vegetable patch after tripping over a hog (who is also not supposed to be among the vegetables) and has to run away from a kitchen harpy with a broom, cloak thrown over his head to disguise his face. Finally he manages to find a gap in a hedgerow between the patch and an outer garden mainly used to grow herbs.

He notices the sky is a solid gray, and the air has a hint of rain. He had better hurry then.

James is near the rampart, inspecting the ground for hoof-prints, when two guards come into sight. James turns his back to them, suddenly aware of how suspicious a man on his own may look to already paranoid people, and searches about desperately for a reason to be where he is. Farther along a stone path is a cluster of casks, most turned onto their sides. He knows that each morning kitchen boys roll them to the well for water.

Drawing up the hood of his brown cloak, he hurries to one empty cask and starts rolling it across the open ground in the direction of where he thinks the well should be. It isn't long before his muscles burn from the exertion and he has to slow his pace to catch his breath. The guards stride past his panting, struggling form as if he is invisible. In that moment James has a new respect for the kitchen boys.

He finishes rolling the cask to the well, thinking that there is good in saving someone half the task and a great deal of lower back pain. Limping now, he moves toward the gate opening to the lower grounds, which house the market well as a few inns and taverns for travelers. It is quite not a town, but it has a distinct ebb and flow of its own.

James doesn't remember it.

He hears the rattle of a wagon behind him and moves out of its path, expecting it to pass him by. Instead the wagon stops, and its driver leans around the reins in his hands to ask, "Need a ride, son?"

James nods, and he is told to hop into the wagon bed, which he does, trying his utmost not to dislodge any turnips or cabbages. He keeps his head bowed low as they pass through the gate. At one point, the wagon halts again and the driver has an amiable conversation with a guard. The way they speak to each other, casual and friendly, implies they are acquaintances, maybe friends. James has to wonder if the driver is a farmer of an outland who delivers every season to the royal kitchen. It could possibly explain why the guard forgoes a close inspection of the wagon and its strange occupant. But whatever the reason, he is grateful not to be questioned.

James calls, "I'll get off here," when the wagon rolls abreast of a tavern and without waiting for a reply jumps down from the bed.

The horse neighs as the driver pulls the wagon up short; he turns, his weathered face beneath his hat showing surprise, no doubt at having lost his guest so soon. Then the man shakes his head, somewhat sadly. "Don't waste all yer coin," he admonishes James, and picks back up the reins. The wagon lurches and goes on its way.

If only his days were as simple as spending too much money in a tavern, James thinks. He snorts, vaguely amused, and lifts his head as much as he dares to get a good look at his surroundings.

Now where would a horse thief on the run from royal guards hide? Most places seem too obvious. James walks a little ways.

He is beginning to think he has set himself on a wild goose chase until he spies a structure in the distance that gives him pause. If the thief is clever—and thieves usually are—it would be the perfect spot to go to ground. Pleased with his deduction, James heads in that way.

The chapel is ramshackle, the walls and altar inside unadorned. There is a single wooden bench on either side of the open room, and the only clean spot is a strip of stone floor in front of the altar where people go to kneel in prayer.

James perches on the end of a bench and faces the altar, huddling into his cloak like a beggar would in the rain. He had not expected the chapel to be empty and tries to guess at the whereabouts of its caretaker. Is there a side room? A small stable? A cellar under his feet?

The chapel is too plain to have any of these things. This may have been a mistake after all.

James' thoughts turn gloomy, as they had in his bed chamber while Pavel watched him pace.

He can think of only one reason why Spock did not tell him of the theft, and that is because Spock thinks he has no value in such situations. To catch this thief would have proven otherwise, or so he had convinced himself.

"What have I ever done," he whispers to the altar, "to become this... this useless figurehead? Is it that I don't know who I am, and they do and seek to change what they know?"

"I never thought of you as a praying man," a voice says from behind him. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given all you've been through."

James stills in the motion of turning around, realizing that his face must not be seen. He clears his throat and faces forward again, bowing his head in a manner he hopes _does_ pass for praying.

He feels a shock course through him when the newcomer sits down right beside him.

"I had wondered if you would come."

"Oh?" James murmurs, wondering what the trick is. "If you know me, then you must also know I am usually late."

The man chuckles, but the chuckle doesn't sound right, happy.

Beyond the curve of his cloak's hood, James can see a pair of hands, one of them bearing a ring on the smallest finger. The clothes and boots are nondescript, hinting at no profession or social class.

James is fairly certain he has never encountered this person before.

"Jim," the man says abruptly, "don't you know it's me?"

He can't answer to someone else's name, so he stays quiet.

"_Jim_," the voice grows sharper, more urgent, "please. Say something!"

"My name," he mutters, "is James."

There is a sharp inhale. Then, "I was afraid you would say that."

A tingle starts across the back of James' neck, causing the fine hairs to stand on end.

"You know," the man continues on, as if silence is an invitation to speak, "memory loss is more common than you think when... when a traumatic event happens."

_What?_ James struggles not to voice his disbelief that he's been identified so quickly. Goosebumps rise around his arms.

"The brain has to cope somehow. Combined with lack of oxygen, shock, prolonged pain, radiation—"

"I want you to stop talking," James orders more flatly than he intends.

The words stutter to a stop.

"In a moment I will stand up, and I will leave this place. You will not follow me."

As if his command hadn't had the makings of a threat, a hand drops down to cover the top of James', colder than his own. He reacts belatedly, jerking away and jumping to his feet, wishing with a sudden fierceness he had brought some weapon, even hidden a small dagger in his boot. James takes a step away from the bench and the man and mentally prepares himself to fight.

Except the person does not move.

James looks down at him and sees the stranger's face for the first time.

The eyes hold too much sadness, too much raw pain—and too much knowledge of who James really is.

"I've been waiting a long time," he says, and James is unable to look away. "Please, Jim, don't go."

"Who are you?"

The man does not answer, only inhales as if he cannot believe the prince does not know.

"Who?" James asks again.

"Leonard," the man answers at last. "Leonard McCoy." He sounds defeated. "There's no easy way to say this..."

James fists his hand against his chest, where his heart suddenly starts pounding. "Don't tell me," he blurts out.

Sympathy is in those eyes now, along with the sadness and the pain. "Kid, I've got to."

He's going to throw his hand over the man's mouth. He's going to hit him. He's going to—

"You're—"

He doesn't have to do anything. The door to the chapel flies open.

A shadow spills in, reaching to the altar and beyond. A second shadow appears, and then another. Beyond the doorway, the world is drenched in rain.

"Sir," Spock says, standing at the front of a group of men, "you are needed. We found the thief."

James starts forward at the news, forgetting his panic. He demands, "Where?"

Sulu joins Spock at the door. "He was escorted to the dungeon. There will be a trial."

"We need you," they reiterate.

James draws in a breath and nods, walking toward them. He is almost free of the chapel when he remembers to turn back to the bench and Leonard.

But he need not have. No one is there.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

The world swims before his eyes. He clutches at something to anchor himself—an arm, it feels like.

_Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I knew he would have never accepted the goodbye._

Someone places a hand on his forehead, urging him not to speak.

_Will he ever forgive me?_

_If it is forgiveness you need, here you will always be forgiven._

The answer does not truly satisfy him but the pain comes then, and the heat, like someone cooks him from the inside out. He wants no memory of it, and so buries it deep.

[~~~]

Autumn turns to winter abruptly, leaves withering all at once and the migrating birds stealing away. A discontent is left behind in James. He wakes suffocating amid the opulence of his bed chamber, wondering where the days of the season have gone, why they have become naught but darkness and dreams.

A fire is already stoked in the hearth, but the prince rises from his bed with a quilt about his shoulders and trails to the nearest window. The land is still cloaked in shadow, the light he had hoped to see only a dim glow at the horizon. He shivers despite the quilt and begins to sweat despite the cold.

"Sir!" There is worry in the voice of his manservant, who places a bowl and a cloth near the foot of his bed. Pavel beseeches the prince to lie down again. "Please, you have not been well for some days."

"I feel fine." The act of speaking ignites a fire in James' throat. "Pavel?" he questions, recognizing that something is strange but not what.

The manservant stirs in the corner of eye. "Sir?"

Weary, throat aching, James leans into the wall by the window. "This is not the world I remember," he says, staring down at the snow on the ground. "But I suppose a sire is a sir." He frowns. "There was something I had to do."

"You are obligated only to rest," a new voice informs him, one without pleading.

James sighs through his nose. "Are you here in the event that I recover, or that I do not?" he asks.

"Either," Spock replies in his unalarming way.

"It was raining," the prince murmurs. "You said you needed me."

"You took ill from exposure to the rain. Your fever has not yet passed."

He doesn't want to hear about his health. "What of the thief?"

There is a short silence. Then, "Under guard."

James sighs again. "We cannot leave him to wait too long."

"The man," Spock points out, "is there by his own folly."

But James shakes his head, which has the unfortunate side effect of making things spin. His grip on the quilt turns bloodless. "Everyone is innocent until proven guilty."

"Yet his guilt is evident."

"To whom?" James asks almost sharply, turning around to look his steward in the eyes. "I have made no decision on the matter."

"You," Spock's reply is just as sharp, "are compromised."

James stiffens at the insult.

The steward shifts, then, his implacableness lessening in stance and voice. "I merely state a fact. Until the fever abates, you are in no condition to make judgment upon the accused. That is why I urge you to rest."

"You say you need me," James says slowly, "but often I wonder if you would see me fail."

Spock lets his hands hang loosely by his sides, the only sign of his surprise.

James faces the window again. "Forget it, that was cruel of me. I know you don't understand, as I know it isn't your intention to curtail my agency. In truth, it is you who are more compromised than I am, Spock, because you refuse to be duplicitous."

The other man moves forward until they stand shoulder to shoulder. "Thank you," he says, grave as ever, "for I assume you meant to compliment me, and that proves my conclusion. You are not fully recovered." He beckons Pavel over.

The manservant takes James' arm, saying, "Let me help you to bed, sir."

James nods mutely and allows himself to be pulled from the window. Spock follows, approaching the bed only once Pavel has tucked the prince in. Slumping down into the crumpled sheets, James makes an effort to keep his eyes open.

"Do not worry," murmurs Spock over his head. "Nothing shall change until you join us again."

James shakes his head slightly, not in a frame of mind to challenge the promise. He can only think of a small grievance, a quiet nagging thing, and mumbles it with a sigh. "You never use my name."

He imagines that Spock leans closer.

"I could not. You are my liege."

James' eyes close. "I am also your friend."

Spock places a hand against the prince's cheek. James sleeps.

[~~~]

Two days later James is awake and aware and feeling very much like himself. In the company of his newly re-instated personal guard, he visits the prisoner in the dungeons. The two men standing silently on either side of a barred door place their fists over their hearts when they notice his approach, but only at Sulu's command do they move aside.

The man on the other side of the door sits cross-legged on a straw pallet. He turns his head in curiosity after the door opens. James is expecting him to look miserable—scared, even.

If this person feels either of those things, he gives no sign of it. His thin half-smile is not quite a challenge, but the arrogance behind it is obvious.

Then he seems to look, truly look at James in the poor light, and adopts a neutral expression. It is by far more calculating than the smile.

"Captain," he greets James.

It is unexpectedly Sulu who growls displeasure at the slight of address.

The half-smile reappears.

James considers the intelligence in the prisoner's eyes, offering a reminder with dismissive carelessness, "Prince, not Captain."

The man nods in his direction as one equal would to another.

James takes a step forward in consternation, but Sulu's arm quickly bars his path. He sees the hard look in the guardsman's eyes and, somewhat unnerved by it, relents, moving back to his original position.

The prince refocuses his attention on the prisoner. "Do you have a name?"

"Name?" the man repeats, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. After a moment, he says, "I see. I should warn you, if we are to play this game, the stakes should only be worth what you are willing to lose." His gaze is coldly amused. "Or didn't you already learn that lesson?"

James draws in a sharp breath at the stirring of an almost-memory. He squashes it down, saying quickly, "If you wish to withhold your identity, so be it. The next question I will ask only once: do you understand the charge against you?"

The man looks away, the end to his amusement abrupt. "Yes. All of them."

James nods. "Then your trial begins on the morrow." He backs out of the cell, not comfortable taking his eyes off the man until he is fully over the threshold.

Sulu shuts the door and lowers the wooden beam into place. A heavy iron lock is engaged.

James eyes Sulu. "He said 'them'. Beyond the theft, what other charges are there?"

Sulu only replies, "Spock knows, sir. You will have to ask him."

[~~~]

He has on plain clothes, wool and undyed linen, and boots that have walked through better days. He wears his face like his boots, strong and serviceable but nothing that would catch the eye. Likely, he does not want to be recognized, except by his quarry.

James closes the door softly, wholly unsurprised. He had felt there would be a return of the stranger, that their business was not done. It is only the small fact that Leonard's appearance has occurred without rousing any of the guards (even the ever-vigilant Sulu whom James has convinced to remain in the antechamber for privacy's sake) that makes James peevish.

"How did you get in here?" he asks.

Leonard does not appear impressed by the demanding tone. "What are you doing, Jim?"

"_How_ did you get in here?"

"Why that bastard?"

James moves away from the door, flinging up a hand. "My question first."

Leonard rolls his eyes like he is being coerced into a game. "Fine. I flew in."

"Oh, definitely not."

"I crawled under the door?"

James nearly snorts and warns him, "I will grant you one more chance to be truthful and if you aren't, I plan to alert the guard in the next room. These days he is far less lenient concerning strangers than I am."

"The truth is," Leonard says, "I walked in. No one noticed."

And that, James decides, is more dismaying to hear aloud. What kind of protection does this castle have if strangers can come and go as they please?

He crosses his arms and widens his stance. "Fair enough. Now... who is the bastard?"

Leonard's mouth presses into a thin line. "You know."

James raises his eyebrows. "I do?"

"Damn it, man," McCoy says, clearly aggravated, "what is this you're playing at? I'm talking about Khan—_Khan_, of all people!"

James narrows his eyes but, to him, the name means nothing.

His lack of shock must disturb the other man. Leonard moves toward him, anger replaced with concern. "Whatever it is you're doing here, Jim..."

Khan may be an empty moniker but the nickname Leonard insists on using is like someone continually prodding at a sore spot. James' temper sharpens. "Why must you call me that? I was born James, I have always been James, and I shall _die_ James."

Leonard flinches.

James swallows an apology as his sudden anger cools, and he turns away, removing his circlet to hold it in his hands. "I only ask that you call me by my birth name."

"I can't," Leonard says.

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, then I might forget who you are."

James lifts his head, looks at him. "You make no sense, Leonard."

Leonard shakes his head slightly. "I'm trying to but you aren't making this easy on me. Last time I... well, last time you wouldn't let me finish." The man sighs. "I know you're not ready. I know that... but it took so long for me to simply _exist_."

James swallows down inexplicable shame. "Of course you exist. I'm talking to you."

Leonard is silent a moment, his eyes infinitely sad. When he speaks again, he begs, "Just tell me... why Khan?"

"He's a thief," James answers, unthinking. Something slips into place, a puzzle piece. James rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. "So he's the one. Is Khan the reason you came here?" He has a suspicion he cannot ignore. "Are you his accomplice?"

The man's skin flushes, his eyes flash. He strides for the chamber door, surprising James with the force of his anger.

James pivots on the ball of his foot to watch the man go. "You're leaving?"

"I don't know why I bother with you," Leonard shoots back, his voice dark. "You're such a fool!"

The door opens before Leonard can reach for it. Pavel comes inside, James' dressing robe draped over one arm.

He asks, "Are you ready for bed, sir?" then gazes around the room, adding, "I heard you talking. Vas someone here?"

Leonard walks straight through Pavel and out the door. In McCoy's wake, the young man gives a bewildered shudder.

Following a stunned moment, James closes his mouth. Sulu, he notices, is watching him intently from the other side of the doorway.

Weakly the prince beckons his manservant forward. "I believe it is time for bed, Pavel, thank you. Bring that here."

[~~~]

The entirety of the court is gathered around, some watching the prisoner standing in a circle of guards, others watching the prince on the throne. It is James' voice which carries across the open hall.

"A thief, a swindler, a spy..." James does not once glance down at the scroll by his hand. He has memorized every word. "Once even a _king_, overthrown by his own people. Have I missed anything, Spock?"

The steward answers, "Negative."

James taps his fingertips rhythmically against the armrest of his high-backed chair. "Tell me, Khan, how does a man with your lineage become such a scoundrel? Is it madness you have fallen prey to, or your own black heart?"

Khan says nothing, as he has said nothing since the start of the trial. James is tired of having to goad him to participate. He waves a negligent hand.

"I will grant you one more chance to speak for yourself. If you still have nothing to say, then I accept that you are guilty on all accounts. So choose carefully what you do next. You may go to your grave having paid a great price to keep your dignity."

"You would kill me?"

James leans back, satisfied to have won this small battle. "I would."

Khan appraises him and expresses mild approval: "Then I have underestimated you, Captain."

The man is needling him the only way he can. James knows this. But even knowing so, he cannot completely contain his ire. "If you want leniency, now is the time to beg for it."

"Ah—and you have underestimated me. I deny none of the charges on your list, with the exception of one."

A curious murmur runs through the court.

Spock speaks beneath the noise, inquiring of Khan, "Which charge do you deny?"

Spock's involvement this late in the proceedings comes as somewhat of a shock to the prince. The man has not moved and hardly spoken unless directly asked a question. Until now, there has been no give to the off-putting formality he has steeped himself in, from the unadorned grey outfit to the disengaged tone of his voice.

James returns his gaze to Khan, also curious to hear the answer.

"What charge, indeed?" the prisoner echoes, his attention on the steward. "Do you think me a fool?"

"Khan," James says in warning.

"Did you not tell your Captain?" Khan baits Spock, sounding anything but surprised. "The theft was a ruse."

James barks out a laugh at the absurdity. "I think it is you who wants to fool us. A sloppy theft is how we caught you."

"Good," Khan replies. "Now you begin to understand."

James opens his mouth, then closes it, something cold striking very hard at the core of him. He looks to Spock, sees no change in expression. He looks to Khan, seeing only triumph. "No. You're lying."

"Would I lie over so trivial a matter when there in your hand lies a hundred crimes more worthy? Captain," the man says, pityingly, "who is the fool now?"

"Silence!" James cries, coming to his feet. "You have no right to make accusations when you have committed the greater sin! Do you even care how many lives have been destroyed because of you?"

"I would ask the same: do the men and women who die for this House haunt you at every turn?"

James draws a breath at the same time the guards around Khan draw their swords. Khan looks at no one but the prince, even with the press of Sulu's blade against his neck.

"You see, we are much alike, Kirk."

"I am no murderer."

"No," says Khan, "just my executioner."

The damage is done. He cannot stop the words any more than he can stop his need for air. He orders, "Khan Noonien Singh, you are sentenced to hang until dead."

Shaking, nauseated, and brimming with hatred, James abandons the dais before anyone else has a chance to rise from their seats. His part here is over. The game could have had no other end.

He becomes aware after some time that Spock has followed him from the great hall and walks beside him in silence. James stops in the middle of the corridor, gazing at nothing in particular.

He breathes. He shudders. He says, "It's necessary."

Spock offers him no advice.

James is disappointed. He closes his eyes and commands, "Leave me now."

When his eyes open again, Spock is gone.

[~~~]

There is no longer safe haven within the castle.

Jim walks slowly, aimlessly, toward the wood. Sometimes, while he wanders through light and dark, he sees one clear world and one blurred.

One cold chapel, empty.

One silvery star, afire.

At the edge of the trees, he stands on the border of both worlds. Neither makes sense to him; neither seems like home. He has been drifting since he became un-tethered and his memories were buried.

What is the point of going on?

The wind catches his hair, then, and shakes him loose from his dreaming. He looks around and down, discovering a faceless figure has intruded on his path. Turning, he identifies the shadow's owner as his guard, Sulu.

"Not the wood," the man says, eyes serious.

James shifts his gaze.

"Not yet," adds Leonard, standing by the guardsman. He has no shadow of his own.

The prince doesn't know which one he trusts. Maybe it is for that reason he follows them both back up the hill.

[~~~]

He wakes with his heart pounding, alone in his bed chamber. The dream was about falling, endlessly falling. He lays tense, full of dread, not at all certain the bed won't disappear from under him in the next moment and the dream will happen all over again.

At length, the door to the chamber creaks open and Pavel comes in, bearing a candle.

"Here is light," his manservant whispers.

The darkness in the room lessens. James has never been more grateful for, nor comforted by, such a small flame.

[~~~]

"Spock," the prince confesses the next morning when he enters the steward's study without first knocking, "I may be losing my mind."

Spock stands at the window, face averted. Behind him, the contents on his unusually tidy table are chaotic. Ink from an overturned pot drips down to pool upon the stone floor.

James forgets his worry. "Has something happened?" he asks, skirting the ink and a few strewn pages.

"You sent Pavel to the library."

James blinks, then remembers. "I did, yes." _Before Khan, before Leonard_, he thinks to himself. Technically both are true. But he doesn't know which is more important.

Looking serious and unsurprised, Spock extricates a scroll from the mess. "You asked for a map."

"He found one, then?"

James reaches for the scroll. Spock's hesitation in handing it over delays the transfer for a quick moment. James tucks the scroll under his arm for safe-keeping.

He says, "I need to ask you something. Will you give me your honest opinion?"

The steward lifts one eyebrow. "I am required to."

James wants to smile but can't.

Spock considers his expression, then wonders, "Why do you doubt your sanity?"

The least crazy explanation will have to do. "There is a man named McCoy. I think he's a ghost and he's decided to haunt me."

Spock tilts his head. "Fascinating. Since when?"

"At the chapel, just before you—" Jim stops, sidetracked, to stare at Spock. "How did you know I was there?"

"I always know where you are."

James looks pained. "Perhaps it is you and not myself I should be questioning, Spock."

"There is no need to do either. If my performance becomes incompetent, you will replace me. If your performance becomes incompetent, I will replace you. That is the failsafe."

"If we're both incompetent... then what?"

"That is highly likely, but should the event occur Lady Uhura has made it known she would make a suitable queen."

James laughs, feeling much relieved. "Then I may abdicate the throne simply to give her the opportunity!"

Spock walks him to the door of the study. "I will pass the message on." He gives the prince a steady look. "If you are troubled again by Leonard, come to me immediately. There are ways to exorcise such spirits."

James nods his understanding and steps into the corridor. The study door shuts behind him. Remembering the scroll under his arm, James unrolls it. It is a map of his lands—the castle encircled completely by green peaks of trees. Beyond the forest lies nothing but blank parchment. He rolls it back up.

It is only once the prince has returned to his chambers that he realizes he never made mention of McCoy's first name.

[~~~]

A line of windows along the stone corridor arch across a view of white. James, like so many passers-by, catches stray arrows of sunlight in his clothing; they compliment the golden hue of his tunic. He is in no hurry; but then again, neither is the man trailing behind him.

"Are you following me now?"

"Have to," Leonard replies, lengthening his stride to fall into step with the prince. "Where are we going?"

"_I_ am seeking pleasant company—that of the lovely Lady Uhura. She plays chess, you know."

"What an awful liar you are! You're not going anywhere. You're brooding."

James presses his mouth flat and quickens his pace. Much to his dismay, Leonard has no trouble keeping up with him.

Silence settles between them. James is content until Leonard shatters it by saying, "Khan's not dead."

He had no desire to hear that name. "If you don't have a stake in his living, what business is it of yours?"

"I'm curious."

James exhales loudly. "Fine, then. He will be."

"Hm," remarks Leonard, "but you don't sound certain of that."

The prince stops walking to round on his companion. "What would you have me do? I cannot kill him! I may want to, particularly when I think of how much _safer_ we would be if he were dead, but it doesn't—" He bites off the rest of the confession, realizing he has been too honest.

"You don't want to become him," Leonard finishes. "If he tried to cut you down, you would have no choice but to choose his life or your own. This is different. An execution is not self-defense."

James lowers his voice, which sounds excessively loud to his own ears. "It could be preemptive."

"And it may also be just, but you are the one who has to live with the taking of his life for the rest of yours." Leonard places a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. "I'm glad this isn't an easy decision for you, kid."

James looks away, slowly turning the rest of his body to follow. He admits, "I wasn't brooding over Khan."

"I know that. Want to tell me about it?"

A thought amuses him. "Have you appointed yourself an advisor to the throne?"

"Advice sounds better coming from a friend."

Amusement melting away, James resumes a slow pace. "A prince shouldn't have friends." He considers what he wants to say next, settling on, "I have to figure out how Spock knows you."

Leonard groans. "Oh, _him_—I should've known. He's always the source of your brooding."

"Shut up."

"My, my... not sounding so princely now, are we?"

"Because you're confusing me!" James snaps half-heartedly, then rubs at the bridge of his nose. "And giving me a headache."

Leonard slips in front of James without warning and takes his chin in a firm hold. He peers into the prince's eyes with the air of someone who knows what he's looking for. Leonard's hand feels like ice.

James squints against the halo of sunlight surrounding the man. "What are you doing?"

"Jim?"

The light is painful, shining directly into his eyes.

"_Jim?_"

The name has the echo of two voices saying it at the same time. Confused, James doesn't know which voice to answer.

The moment passes, taking with it the unholy glare of the light. James' headache subsides. He blinks, finding himself staring into Leonard's wide eyes. Any explanation which might have occured between them is lost when a man and woman in courtly dress turn the corner of the corridor and recognize James.

"I'm sorry," he says to Leonard, "but I can't be seen talking to myself. You have to go. Most of the court thinks suspiciously of why I postponed the execution date. I don't want them convinced I'm crazy."

Leonard's hand drops away; his form flickers. But when he speaks he sounds overjoyed. "You're not crazy, Jim. You're waking up."

James steps back to put distance between them. "I can't wake up, because I never went to sleep. This is my life now, Bones, so deal with it."

He has no idea why Leonard hugs him, and even less idea why, just for a moment, he hugs Leonard back.

[~~~]

Days pass. Snow buries the rooftops, courtyards, and gardens. And people begin to disappear from the castle.

James comes upon the Keeper sitting alone and sipping ale in the dining hall. He takes a seat across from Scotty, asking plaintively, "Where have you been?"

Scotty blinks at him over his mug's rim. "About, here and there. I hear ye've been staying out of trouble these days."

The prince cannot tell if that is an observation or a complaint. He settles for a slight grin to cover both. "A prince has too many duties to ignore, I'm afraid."

"Aye," agrees the other man, his gaze wandering away. "I'm glad ye came. I wanted to say my goodbyes."

James straightens at this news, alarmed. "You're leaving? Why? Where is there to go in the middle of winter?"

"Dinnae rightly know myself—expect I'll be back when I'm needed, though."

"But I need you! Who else can I trust as Keeper?"

Smile wry, Scotty produces the trademark of his position and jingles the keys on the iron ring. "Take 'em," he says when James just stares. "They're yours anyway."

James accepts the keys, all-at-once nervous and excited to have them. "I can go anywhere," he says, as if puzzling out a difficult problem, "in this castle? No one will stop me?"

"Always could," Scotty replies. "It's just a fact some of those places weren't safe to be gotten into in the beginning." He swallows the last of his ale, sounding both satisfied and a little wistful. "I did a good job," he remarks, looking down into his empty mug. "You'll remember that?"

James nods and rises part of the way to lean across the table and tug the man into a one-armed hug. "Thank you, Scotty, for everything. For all that you've done. I wish you a safe journey."

Scotty pulls away and nods back, eyes slightly red around the edges. "Bye, Jim," he mumbles, and shuffles away from the table.

James stays a long time in his seat, watching different faces trickle in and out of the hall. He thinks he begins to understand.

Maybe he is Jim, deep down, more than he's ever been James.

That thought doesn't comfort him—but it does open up a possibility he wouldn't have otherwise considered.

Hurrying to the closest courtyard, he finds Scotty already dressed for travel, in the act of trying to mount a horse. Because the stirrups are too low, the man can't quite sling his opposite leg across the saddle. The horse senses the nerves of his would-be rider and dances around. Scotty is cursing in vivid detail, unbeknownst to him entertaining a group of squires.

"Ho, good Keeper!" James calls.

"This confounded beastie," grips the red-faced man to the approaching prince, "is too big! I might as well be tryin' to mount a dragon!"

James herds the man aside to whisper away from eavesdroppers, "Okay, Scotty, okay. We'll find you a pony. But first I need you to do something for me."

Scotty frowns at him. "Already? But I haven't left yet!"

"_Please?_"

"Oh, all right," agrees the man, looking uneasy but resigned. "What is it I need to do?"

James tells him.

Scotty jerks back, exclaiming, "You're mad! That's mad!"

"Not as mad as the alternative."

Scotty stares at him, aghast. Then, as James likes to believe was inevitable, he concedes the point. "Not that I'm for this scheme," the man repeats for the fifth time as they tromp through the snow to the stables. "He'll likely kill us all in our sleep."

"He won't," James assures his friend. "I know he'll run."

[~~~]

James opens his eyes, sees noon light sliding down the silken hanging over his chamber window. It stops at the curve of an object left beside his washing basin—the map.

The chorus of trumpets from the guard house blare again, waking the prince up fully. He throws on the nearest clothes to hand and hastens from the room. Sulu isn't in the antechamber, waiting for him. Pavel is nowhere that he can see either.

James runs into Spock on his way outside. Spock eyes his lack of cloak, which had been forgotten, and suggests they take an alternate route to the lower half of the castle. It won't require them to cross the snow-covered flagstones. James thinks this is a grand idea, given that he has accidentally put on Pavel's boots instead of his own. They pinch his toes terribly.

"Where?" he demands, hurrying alongside his steward.

"The dungeons" comes the grave reply.

_Khan_, neither of them has to say.

[~~~]

The pale set of Sulu's face loses the last of its color when Spock and James turn the corner nearest Khan's cell.

"He's escaped," the guardsman explains.

"How?" Spock wants to know at the same time James says, "Prepare two teams, no more than four guards each. The first will search the dwellings by the market. Put someone in charge that you can trust. You, Spock, and I will lead the second team. We will head to the forest. The rest of the men are to stay here and protect those left behind."

Spock and Sulu stare at him.

"That's an order," James adds.

Sulu bows, taking his leave to fulfill command.

Face impassive, Spock's gaze follows James' prowl through Khan's empty cell. "You believe he will be in the forest. Why?"

"Khan needs to vanish. If he makes it to the other side of the forest, he can accomplish that."

"How can you know this?"

James returns to Spock's side. "The map, Spock."

"I do not follow."

"There's nothing on the map beyond the forest. Tell me, what are the odds of commissioning a map which cannot be used as one—unless it is to serve another purpose?" He eyes Spock. "And that, I think, is why you were reluctant to give it to me."

"Sir..."

"No, Spock," James admonishes him. "Use my name."

Spock considers that request, then says, "James."

But the prince merely shakes his head. "Jim," he amends, smile small, half-hearted. "You should call me Jim."

[~~~]

They go on foot, leaving the grounds by the drawbridge. Before their party crosses into the trees, James stops to look back at the castle. He sees blocks of stone on stone, silver-gray in color, now seeming small and fragile above the vast forest.

He adjusts the drape of his cloak and goes on.

Green, or perhaps the wish for green, colors the winter trees in his mind; otherwise he has to see them as they truly are, slender white and barren as bone.

"A graveyard," Leonard observes, appearing next to him.

"Yes," James agrees. "It seems appropriate, for the resting place of my past." He notices Spock glances sidelong in his direction. "Have you tried talking to him?"

"Who... Spock?" Leonard furrows his brows. "He'd never listen."

"Because you're a ghost?"

A rueful smile touches Leonard's mouth. "I didn't say he wouldn't hear me, Jim."

The distinction intrigues the prince, but there is no more time for questions. Up ahead, a scout calls for their attention. Human tracks have been found in the snow.

James drops to one knee to inspect them, brushing impatiently at the flurries caught in his hair. He hopes the deeper they go into the forest, the less likely the tracks are to be hidden by the constant snowfall.

Leonard kneels beside him. "Is there a plan?"

"I want to see where he goes."

"Sir?" Sulu queries, bemused, standing beside the prince.

James stands up. "Send two men ahead this time. Khan can't be far, but I wouldn't put it past him to try and lead us in circles."

"Would we know if we're walking in circles?" asks Leonard, eyeing the confusing scatter of trees.

"I wish I had thought to bring a hound," James murmurs. He squares his shoulders, declaring, "Let us go on."

[~~~]

A body drops from the sky. Or, more accurately, the body comes flying through the trees, backwards, to land in a heap at Spock's feet.

James has his dagger in hand. Sulu lifts his sword. Spock crouches down and rolls the man onto his back. He looks like something frozen in time; his eyes are open, still holding a faint glaze of horror. The blood flowing from his head glitters on the snow.

"Dead," Spock remarks at the same time Leonard says, "He's dead, Jim."

The steward's body jerks minutely, his gaze sliding from the prince to the prince's left and there he stares.

"Damn," mutters Leonard, taking a full step behind James.

James raises a hand in warning as Spock stands and starts forward, saying tersely, "_Not now_." He shifts, looking around, a bad feeling settling upon him. "Where's the other...?"

The second scout staggers into sight, the dark blotches on his clothes a deeper red than his tunic. His eyes rolls back into his head, and he collapses into the snow, unconscious or dead.

Sulu and the two remaining guards fan out into a half-circle in front of James, weapons at the ready.

"Khan!" James shouts, pushing forward. A hand on either side of him drags him back, one belonging to Spock, the other to Leonard. James shakes them off, making his fury known. "Khan, show yourself!"

"_Captain_", they hear, an echo without origin, "_what was the point in helping me escape if you intended to imprison me again? Or did you want to hunt me down all along?_"

"Give me a reason, Khan! I'll run you through!"

"_I have sent you two. _"

Blackbirds whirl, crying, out of the trees. Startled, one of the guards looses an arrow after them.

"_But perhaps you want more._"

James sees a glint of sunlight in the distance. Terror rakes a claw across his heart before he can find a word for what he fears. Then the light—metal with light caught on it—comes hurtling from between two trees, thrown with impossible speed and deadly accuracy. Sulu crumples soundlessly, the blade embedded through his neck. His sword sinks into the snow.

James screams, shattering the silence. He flings himself forward but is intercepted by Spock, who takes him down to the ground before an arrow can sink into his chest.

Someone says James' name, his other name, stricken. Someone else cries out in pain.

James fights to get up but is pinned by Spock's weight. He watches while the last guard standing fires an arrow in the direction of the attack. In the next moment the man is dead, a shaft protruding from his eye.

"_No!_ Let me up!" James braces his forearms against his steward's shoulders and pushes. Spock rolls off him, to the side, without protest. His eyes are transfixed on nothing.

He is, the prince realizes, dead like the rest.

James chokes on his horror, falling forward to shake the death out of Spock's eyes.

Leonard catches him, forces him upright. "No, Jim!"

"What have I done?" James—Jim—says. "What—Bones, what have I _done?_"

"What you had to," the man replies, unsympathetic. Leonard tugs Jim by an arm to his feet. "C'mon. We have to hurry now." When Jim doesn't move, he takes Jim's face between his hands. "Look at me, kid. We have to go on."

[~~~]

"I don't understand," Jim whispers between hitches of breath and drunken stumbling in his friend's wake. He drags the sleeve of his torn gold shirt across his face, smearing tears and blood.

Leonard sets a relentless pace, stopping only when necessary to pick Jim up out of the snow. Each time he urges, "Don't stop. You stop, you die."

"I killed them," he says numbly to Leonard's back. "Khan will take the castle. He'll destroy whoever is left. Bones, I killed them _all_."

"It was the needs of the many against the needs of the one," Leonard finally answers, although he doesn't look back. "We chose the one. We had to."

"We—no, I couldn't."

"I did."

Jim's foot hits a root hidden beneath the snow. He falls to a knee, skins a hand on the rough bark as he goes down. Cradling his bloody palm, he thinks it might be preferable to lay down and die beneath this tree.

Leonard's hands clamp down hard on his shoulders to make him get up again.

Jim hunkers farther into his misery, claiming, "Bones, I can't do it."

Leonard would have given him gentle understanding. This man has none. He digs his fingers into Jim's jaw.

Jim jerks away on instinct and looks the man in the eyes, seeing at last who is truly driving him to his end.

"You're not him," he says.

Leonard's features are grim. "That's your fault, kid."

Jim struggles past his shock. "Then who—who were you this entire time?"

"Who was Spock?" counters the man with Leonard's face. "Sulu? Funny Scotty and clever Uhura? Faithful Pavel? Who were they, Jim?"

Jim is silent.

"You," Leonard answers on his behalf. "Everything had to be you, because you didn't want to be you—until you decided you did."

"So you tricked me."

"You've been tricking yourself."

"What was I supposed to do!" Jim demands, sitting up. "I was responsible, and people _died_. How does a man live with that?"

The belligerent line of Leonard's shoulders eases somewhat. "You thought he doesn't, which is why you died, you ass. Now get up and _fix yourself_."

Buoyed by anger at this self-righteous stranger, this unforgiving version of himself, Jim braces his hand on the man's shoulder and rockets to his feet. Leonard stands too, then shoves Jim from behind.

Jim catches himself at the edge of the tree line. Somehow he's made it through, or the forest is simply trying to spit him out as quickly as possible. He doesn't know that it matters.

Curling his fingers around a thin branch, Jim looks out at the great white expanse ahead of him, unbroken snow stretching farther than he can see. There is no wind, no movement, no other color. The quiet of it is overwhelming. He realizes he can't hear his own breathing anymore.

"You're not listening," Leonard tells him. "_Listen_, Jim."

Jim closes his eyes, strains his hearing.

Beneath the silence of death there is sound after all. Muted. A voice, maybe—no, voices. A repetitive whine.

He steps forward without thinking to catch what the voices are saying:

_What is it?_—_it's a boy_—_let's call him Jim_—your father was captain of a starship—_I love you_—for twenty minutes—saved eight hundred lives—I dare—

I dare you to do better.

[~~~]

Jim opens his eyes, dragging in air to the faint ring of Pike's challenge. The whiteness in front of him morphs into a ceiling. The face in the corner of his eye doesn't belong to Chris; he sees Leonard.

Their eyes meet.

Leonard is everything Jim is: relieved, worried, exhausted.

_You're Bones,_ he thinks.

And this is home.

**The End**


End file.
